Apartment 303
by ogwriter
Summary: A series surrounding Apartment 303. Abed/Annie, including some Jeff/Britta, Troy/Britta, and Jeff/Annie.
1. Chapter 1

Here is the first chapter to a multi-chap fic I will be penning surrounding Abed & Annie at Apartment 303. Hopefully you enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review! **Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor shall I profit from NBC's Community.

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><p><strong>Apartment 303: Chapter 1<strong>

By the end of Annie's second month in the apartment, she had been indoctrinated into the order of the late-night movie marathon. "If you had to choose between having either a tail or giant ears," Abed began, a note of sleepiness in his voice, "Which one would you choose?" The credits to the last movie of the night, Stand By Me, rolled by on the blanket fort's TV. Abed didn't blink much as he looked to where Annie sat at the other end of the couch, quietly expectant of her reply.

She looked up from her phone slowly, and he didn't have to wonder who she was texting. "W-what?" She stuttered, her wide eyes looking tired from finals week.

The corner of Abed's mouth pulled slightly as the interaction seemed to fail him. "Nevermind." He said, and his expression was indifferent. Abed's eye wandered to Troy's sleeping form on the nearby bunk bed—when asked, Troy had answered 'tail'.

Her phone made a plastic rattle as it was suddenly tossed upon the coffee table. "I think giant ears, because a tail would be a nightmare in skirts!" He looked back to her swiftly, and remembered to cue up a smile as she continued. "What about you?"

"I think ears too. As I told Troy, you could wear backpacks as earrings, which would free up your _hands_." His chin tipped downward in a gesture he was still ironing out, meant to jokingly express his own poignancy.

"I like backpacks." She said, and when she smiled, he realized he hadn't stopped.

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><p>White morning light shone insistently through Apartment 303's plastic blinds, casting a bright glare on the nearby television and seating area. The apartment was hushed with the quiet of morning except for the gentle creak of floorboards and the quiet running of taps. Annie stood in the kitchen, wearing yellow gloves up to her elbows as she tended to the few dishes from the previous night's movie marathon—bowls of popcorn and glasses of Special Drink all around.<p>

Rummaging in the blanket fort and yet hardly in another room, Abed could be heard quietly pacing and getting ready, humming a jazzy sort of tune that Annie was sure she had heard before. She found herself listening to the quiet song, and kept the taps running low to prevent from drowning out the sound.

Abed emerged from behind a curtain. He was cheerful after movie marathons, and made tracks for the cupboard's box of plain granola bars. "Morning, Annie." He said, placing his overstuffed school bag upon the nearby counter as he searched the cabinets behind her.

"Morninnnng", she reciprocated, before turning a puzzled expression to his bag. "What's in there?"

"Bathrobe." He answered, offering a mechanical twitch of the eyebrows as he strode to add his retrieved snack to the bag's contents. In his jerky movements and intermittent hums, he expressed a quiet type of excitement usually reserved for his film ventures and Troy-related tomfoolery.

"Bathrobe, huh…" Annie's bottle of dish detergent made a wheezing noise as its neon-coloured contents were squeezed into the dirty cargo of the sink. So he was playing Inspector Spacetime today—she found herself bemused by her own growing familiarity with her roommate's idiosyncrasies, and regarded him with a wry sort of look. "Let me guess—the bowler hat is in there, too."

He faced her to deliver his droll reply, presented in an only partially believable British accent. "Elementary, my dear _time_-friend." His nose wrinkled in a rare and short-lived grin. "I'm meeting Troy."

She only shook her head through a smirk, the rubber of her gloves squeaking against an unclean plate as she rinsed.

"You don't have to do those," he said, planting his lanky person near the counter where she worked. She glanced over to him, her hand still circling the outside of a plate with a sud-soaked sponge as she multitasked.

Her expression reflected '_who, me?_' as she followed his extended finger to where it pointed at the side of their fridge. There hung the "Chores List" that the roommates had amicably agreed upon, which for the current week read: "_Abed – Swiffer, Troy –Dishes, Annie –Storytime."_ The boys seemed to take that last one seriously.

She nodded in response, but it was dismissive, and her scrubbing hadn't stopped. "I don't mind doing them, really. Besides… and I say this with love… Troy makes a much better quarterback than a dishwasher." The ladle she now handled was run under the gently streaming tap, its suds washing down into the drain which gargled a constant dialogue of its own.

"Hm. I won't tell him." He nodded, as if reflecting. Abed would, in fact, be mentioning Newly-Washed-Ladle jousting later on. "Although he _did _repair the sink." His pointer finger was now extended in its practiced mannerism toward the basin's newly functional 'hot' tap.

"I _know_!," Annie smiled, and he had no trouble reading the delight in her face. She let the tap drip upon the sink's forgotten payload as she emoted at him. "I almost thought we'd have to let Rick take a look, and I really can't bear to lose any more ballet flats this year."

He afforded her a minute smile in return, beginning to sling his bag over his shoulder and adjust the strap beneath the hood to his sweater. "Any more of Rick and you'll miss your days with Count Spaghetti." He was turning away, looking toward the door, keys jingling in his pocket as he seemed to take stock of his possessions.

"_No—"_ , she protested, before immediately finding herself too emphatic. "I mean—I wouldn't. It's much better living here. I mean." He glanced back only to find her eyeline cast furtively downward as she pulled off her gloves and sent them to the counter with a rubbery flop. "Let's just say it would be best to keep Spaghetti out of Storytime."

He raised an eyebrow in a pause of consideration. Her emoting had changed, become fidgety, distracted. How to read it…

"I seem to recall that B-bed the Unicorn dealt with Spaghetti the Cracksmith." Abed said, and when she looked up, she saw the same look in his eye as the night he'd invited her to live at 303—almost like a plan.

She paused as he looked at her, and the stretched moment in time was somehow weighted with the distinct feeling that she was being told something. "Yea," she began, but he was already turning away, slipping on his shoes to leave. "He did…"

Abed said goodbye, and left her standing in the quiet kitchen, with the white morning light shining in through their plastic blinds.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi there! Please read in 1/2 and leave a review. **Disclaimer: **I do not own, nor shall I profit from Community.

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><p><strong>Apartment 303 – Chapter 2<strong>

They sat down to an 8 o'clock dinner. Inspector Spacetime had run late, and the others had offered to meet for drinks downtown, but the small group didn't seem to feel any urgency as they swiped chicken fingers through ketchup. Troy and Abed had decided to finish off the remaining half-bag of the mostly freezer-burned morsels, having been momentarily innocent in their forgetfulness of the true, insidious deliciousness of chicken fingers.

"I don't know what it is," Troy was saying as he savoured one of the strips, "But these almost taste better than the ones they have at school." He still wore his full navy blue outfit, a sort of imitation doublet that comprised the police attire of a one Constable Reggie. Beside him, swaddled in his Inspector Spacetime bathrobe, necktie and bowler hat, Abed acknowledged Troy's chatter with reverent nod. The pair looked funny, still sitting around in their costumes.

"I know what you mean." Abed replied, sipping an Orange Soda thoughtfully as Annie leafed through Greendale's final edition of the school paper for the year. Tattered and already a week old, its front page bore the out-dated warning of finals week, and a legitimately scary depiction of the Winter-Decorated Human Being wishing everyone a Merry Happy. "I think it's mostly psychological," Abed continued, taking a bite of his own chicken finger as he watched Annie turned the page. "People want what they can't have, it's a law of unrequited love-with no classes during the holidays and no Greendale chicken fingers in sight, you've created a craving that romanticizes the chicken itself."

Chewing thoughtfully on the ketchupey breaded chicken, Troy seemed to wax philosophical. "Damn, man." They shared a look.  
>"You must really love chicken."  "I really do, it's true."  
>"I mean, don't get me wrong, I get why."  "Chicken Goodfellas—"

"—You guys," Annie interrupted, pointing at a page of the newspaper. "Look—Greendale's theater department is doing a production of CATS." Abed followed Annie's eyeline to the advertisement that lay under her fingertip. The poster read "Cats" in a fancy font and was made up of Greendale students big and small, costumed in awkward tufts of fur into vaguely anthropomorphic felines. Together in their impurrfect wardrobe, the show's players posed in an odd tableau.

"Interesting," Abed panned, reading for her intent.

"We should all go see it before I have to leave for the week!" She confirmed, and Abed's eyebrows rose in the moment before Troy grabbed the paper away.

"Oh," Troy stuttered, suddenly off-kilter as his eyes skirted over Greendale's Cats ad. "This-I don't know if you guys would like this...if I would like this." He scratched his ear, clearly back pedaling. "And you know, the theater's so pretentious this time of year—," He tried for a joke, but his laughter was nervous as he hid the advertisement with a quick fold of the paper. Annie resisted the urge to confer with Abed's reaction and maintained awkward eye contact with Troy as he 'subtly' put the newspaper down his shirt.

"Troy, what—" Annie began, her brow furrowed in confusion as Abed merely munched a chicken finger. Troy was still talking distractedly, still working on changing the subject. "Why don't we go to the movies—the new Sherlock is out, Annie—" At this, Abed's head tipped in excitement to catch Annie's reaction with a raise eyebrow.

"Robert Downey Jr., Annie. Pew."

Faced with the choice of either question Troy's bizarrely obvious misdirect, or to make good on her claims of being newly loosey goosey, Annie simply smiled. Okay, going limp.

"Alright, Sherlock it is." She agreed, as a conspicuously relieved Troy gathered their empty plates toward the kitchen. The sink ran quietly as Abed tapped a pencil, sitting watchfully as Annie checked movie listing on her phone. Before long, she spoke up over the sound of running water.

"If we go before 6 on Saturday, I have a coupon that works for free Icees," She said, and when she looked up, it was to him.

The overhead light cast a shadow on his face as he tipped the brim of his bowler hat to her gently. They smiled. "Icees. Cool, cool, cool."

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><p>The Study Group had chosen the Red Door to patronize, turning the night into a strangely principled affair for the Greendale parents. Jeff and Britta had so carefully constructed expectations for its atmosphere that the venue was destined to be mediocre at best, and it was. The Red Door, or L Street, whatever its name was—it was good enough, with a hipster slant that the two of them could agree on. Moreover, the study group were all present and strangely on time, with the exception of Troy, who had opted instead to stay in for an uninterrupted gaming marathon.<p>

After an initial round at the bar, Abed and Britta peered out at the semi-active dance floor, deadpanning at their imminent fates as their pints ran low. Acting as shameless wallflowers, they watched from a booth as Jeff and Annie engaged in a conspicuously awkward not-dance, and Pierce and Shirley bopped innocently nearby. When Britta finally shook her head and balked at the former pair's googly eyes, Abed regarded her with barely-subverted intrigue.

"Is it just me, or do they look like an 80's exercise class?" She asked jokingly. "It's like 'Step Aerobics: Get a Room Edition. Am I right?" Her golden curls bounced as she padded her own joke with laughter, but there was the hint of anxiousness in her voice. Abed sucked his teeth and nodded along, his face somewhat impassive as he took the last swig of his beer. Britta's gaze gave her away quickly enough as it ran back to Jeff's form across the room.

Objectively, he would have suspected her of jealousy, possessiveness of a juvenile sort. People want what they can't have, classic unrequited love scenario. More Greendale chicken fingers that they couldn't eat. It was a 'cut and dried romantic subplot', he might attempt to compartmentalize—yet somehow, at the sight of Jeff's look and Annie's blush, he found he could not muster the hubris to judge Britta. Instead, he found he felt the pang of something else. Hypocrisy?

The song was ending, Annie bounded happily back to the group's booth, and Pierce brought a pitcher from the bar. Jeff ordered a round of Jagerbombs 'ironically', and Britta ordered everyone the very same, perhaps attempting to out-ironic him. Soon enough Pierce got legitimately drunk, Annie became legitimately uncomfortable, and Shirley implied they were unholy.

"You'll notice when we pay the tab," Britta was boasting to Jeff, "That I get a discount from the servers here."

"Is that for certain services rendered?" Jeff quipped, and Abed moved habitually to add a "Classic Winger" notch to his desk, before realizing their actual setting.

"No, Jeff," Britta was answering, but she almost seemed fond of his mockery. "It's because during my work with Greenpeace, I chained myself to a tree out front of here for an entire afternoon, and in doing so got this establishment into the local paper." Britta looked self-satisfied even as Jeff's eyes rolled and Annie made a face that screamed, 'judging you'.

Jeff was squinting now, his crow's feet creasing in scepticism. "Two things—One, why would you ever boast about that?—and two, that 'tree' out front is a cedar shrub—"

"Oh, what, I'm in the Botanism club now?" She objected suddenly to his criticism.

"You mean Botany club?" Jeff replied bitingly, and Abed and Annie shared a glance as they watched the pair digress into 'flirtation as thinly-veiled aggression' mode. "Really, Britta."

"Sorry, wouldn't know. I'm over here in the discount club." She simpered patronizingly.

"Greenpeace, botany clubs," Shirley piped up, after pointedly drinking water all night. "I just know this is all drug talk."

"In that case, call me Green_Pierce_," the old man punned shamelessly, his lack of sobriety lending itself well to his quest to seem relevant as he pushed up his tinted glasses and gestured wildly at Annie. "I'll take any drugs you kids've got. Come on, Judy Garland, quit holding out. Give up the pills." Pierce laughed and found himself to be quite the comedian, even as the fair girl looked stricken by his comment.

"Pierce," she began, her eyes wide, "I do not have drugs! And I don't use pills—and I'm not Judy Garland—," The moment was awkward as everyone's eyes seemed to wander, and in the small lull, Abed strained to hear the words she did not say. I'm not crazy!

In a second the beat was over and Britta commented dryly that she 'doth protest too much', but it was all periphery as Abed observed the subtle fallout—Annie, sitting temperately, poking with her red and white straw at the ice cubes in her empty Screwdriver. Annie and her breakdown, Annie and her anxiety, Annie who internalized it all. Abed saw the flick of her gaze to Jeff, absorbed in his Blackberry and Macallan scotch. The brunette shivered in her dimly-lit corner of the booth and re-centered the buttons on her tight little sweater.

Soon enough Annie saw him looking, and glanced up from across the table. Was it awkward that he didn't look away? Was it strange that she noticed him looking at her? Was he being weird now? She smiled, nodded at him, and seemed fine. "Wanna go soon?" she asked, offering the straightforward gesture for him to check the calculator watch upon his wrist.

1:08am.

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><p>The night felt weary and incredibly old on the bus ride home. The world outside was painted in an oily black that flew past the bus' windows in an illegible blur of dimly-lit suburbs. Back at the bar, Shirley had been tasked with chaperoning Pierce, Britta, and Jeff— leaving Annie and Abed to chivalrously volunteer for public transit. In truth, they didn't mind very much. The bus lurched along down the road, its interior cast in a cheap fluorescent glow as an overhead advertisement for City College flickered intermittently. Music leaked loudly from the headphones of a teenager at the back of the bus, becoming a dull echo as it reached where Abed and Annie sat further towards the front. Abed occupied the window seat and watched the streetlights outside as they sped past, catching half-glances of indiscernible driveways and storefronts in the night.<p>

The sound of the music, the buzz of fluorescent lighting, the pumping of the brakes—together they had become a comfortable white noise. Tired and fighting for consciousness, the steady chatter of their setting was making him drowsy, and lent a soft rhythm to the silence. His gaze went to their reflection in the bus window, to Annie's closed eyes as she lay her head on his shoulder and dozed, half-wasted. They were drunk, indeed, yet not beyond talking—and so it was out of honest preference that they kept no dialogue, even as her eyes fluttered open to watch the passing streets with him once more.  
>"Wait…Where are we?" She asked finally, a look of confusion and self-admonishment crossing her face.<p>

In his liquored state he addressed the window, noting the nearby street names as the bus made a stop to gain a passenger. "It will be a bit until our stop. We're just passing The Ballroom." He answered, his speech lilted by intoxication. The sound of coinage echoed from up front, a fare being paid. Annie hummed as the doors closed quickly behind a rush of cold, winter air.

"Did I tell you a guy hit on me last time we were there?" Abed ventured, tipsy and talkative, his eyebrows rising on their reflection in the glass. Annie smirked at the absurd image it conjured, and she thought of a striking Romeo character bending a knee to a flattered and blushing Abed. Her nose wrinkled as she imagined Abed's hypothetical handling of the situation.

"Did you break his heart?" She responded, ribbing him as she leaned upon his shoulder. He sniffed chidingly, nodded at her blurry form in their reflection.

"In the end, the guy threw his drink in my face." He deadpanned, tipping his head in consideration of the memory. "So I suppose realistically, either one of us could have been the Aniston. Real classic stuff." Annie finally laughed; the sound fluttering amidst the audio of the bus's whining brakes and other passengers' ambient hip hop. It was the pleasant white noise again, ticking along metronomically, measuring their comfort in units of silence as Annie picked her head up, tucked hair behind her ear. He let himself slip her a private reaction-face as they regarded each other's image on the window pane. They were somewhat colourful in their winter clothes, wearing puffy jackets and wool hats to ward against the Colorado winter.

"I guess the world just wasn't ready for our love." He concluded jokingly. She blinked and smiled, and the moment felt pleasantly candid—It was probably the alcohol.

The bus' engine bayed loudly with acceleration as it made a wide turn up in the direction of their apartment, and the pair of them swayed with the vehicle's sudden momentum. In the window's reflection he saw her face turn to profile, and he knew she was looking at him, right next to him, knew that it would be normal to return her gaze. A gentle chime sounded at the front of the vehicle, and an overhead sign flickered and lit up: _Stop Requested_.

The sound seemed to cue the delayed turn of his head, the new closeness of their faces, and the sudden immediacy of the situation as they sat nestled together against the window. He knew the look in her eye, for it was a familiar look of inspection, the very same that he used to try to contend with life through scrutiny. She looked unassuming as she regarded him, and curious, and tired, and cute. Something sounded suddenly in his chest. The brakes of the bus pumped loudly as Annie drew a careful breath, blinked at him, opened her cherry lips to speak—

Abed spoke first.

"This is our stop."


	3. Chapter 3

Here's Chapter 3, as you live and breathe. Remember to read in 1/2, and review! **Disclaimer:** I do not own, nor shall I profit from NBC's Community.

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><p><strong>Apartment 303: Chapter 3<strong>

The next morning was a Saturday, and it dawned with a bitter chill. The previous night's snowfall had seemed to rob the air of its moisture, resulting in the dry kind of cold that crept in through window cracks and under Troy's skin to make him despise the winter season. The young quarterback stood shivering beside 303's small kitchen, cell phone clamped against his ear by one hand as he hovered near Abed's scale model of the boulder scene from _Raiders_.

The sound of ringing echoed quietly from the phone, and with his free hand Troy wiped sleep from his eyes. His Modern Shooter 6 marathon had run into the wee hours of the morning, even until long after Abed had stumbled home and into the blanket fort to pass out instantly atop his bunk.

"Greendale Theater Box Office_—,"_ A_ loud_ voice piped suddenly from the other end of the phone line, and Troy seemed startled at the answer.

"Ahhh—IIiii mean, hello." He said, hiding his squeak with a greeting before continuing in Business Troy mode. "I'm calling about a pair of tickets…"

The voice soon replied with awkward enthusiasm, nearly cutting Troy off. "Wonderful! Which of our productions would you like to see?"

Troy's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he recognized the voice. "Garrett?—"

The sound of Annie's door creaking open sounded from across the apartment, and Troy spun to see the pyjama-clad girl trudge into the room, a hangover cloud seeming to follow her as she braced herself against the wall for a moment. She squinted dazedly against the white light of morning and closed the nearby blinds with a fumbling, half-asleep sort of haste, before plopping down at the apartment's small table. Annie planted her elbows on the table's surface and hung her head in her hands, her brunette hair falling in a curtain to hide her face as she made a pained little groan. Troy raised his eyebrows, letting Garrett hang in suspense as he watched the results of last night's party as it slowly attempted to wave "Good Morning" at him.

"Hallo? This is Garrett." Garrett echoed oddly.

"Yea, I'm here—," Troy answered in a hushed tone, turning away towards the bathroom. "Look, Garrett, I have tickets on hold…,"

Annie finger-combed her hair, head cocking in confusion as Troy did not return her wave. She didn't seem to compute the conversation her roommate was busy having as the room spun slowly with remnant tipsiness. "Where's Abed?" She yawned to herself, addressing Troy's turned back and seeming not to notice as his phone call reached sudden new levels of secrecy.

As if in response, Abed emerged from the blanket fort, dressed for the day in jeans and long-sleeved flannel, as well as his hangover Ray-ban sunglasses. He made a beeline for the kitchen, emitting a bothered growl as he raised his fingers to his temple. "All…right," Abed mumbled, not really speaking to anyone, still drowsy as he opened the cereal cupboard to withdraw a jumbo box of Lucky Charms. "Rise and shine," He said to himself, almost like a command.

"Good morning, Abed," Annie said, mustering an iota of cheerfulness.

Abed winced at the sound. "Okay, not so loud." He said, approaching the small table with complete cereal fixings in tow. "Head hurts." His voice was gravelly with sleep and his speech unusually fragmented, even for him. Annie nodded sagely, accepting a proffered ceramic bowl as Abed sank into a chair on her left. For a moment, they sat quietly in front of their empty bowls, bracing themselves against nausea and head rushes.

"—so just hold those for me at the front desk—," Troy was saying across the room, his hand cupped toward his cell phone as he spoke quietly. "—and put those under the name 'Barnes'—,"

"_BURNS_?" Came the awkward squawk of Garrett's answer, and Troy jerked his head away from the receiver.  
>"<em>Keep it down—,"<em> Troy pleaded, although it was becoming apparent that his roommates were entirely inobservant of his phone call.

Annie let out a quiet sigh as the room finally stopped spinning, though her eyes still seemed to be overreacting to light. Everything was bright, everything was harsh. Even the buzz of the refrigerator seemed deafening. "Abed, am I going to die?" She joked, and found the sound of crinkling plastic to be very loud as he poured Lucky Charms into his bowl.

Abed did not function well through hangovers, and she could see his brow was creased behind his sunglasses. "No." He stated shortly, trying to think of a reply which made sense. "But you might have to put _my_ affairs in order— Six Feet Under, and I'm the dad."

Annie didn't exactly get it, and politely subdued a yawn as Abed shook some of the brightly coloured cereal into her bowl, let her add her own milk. "I think that bartender was definitely over-pouring my Screwdrivers." She said, poking at her cereal with a dessert spoon before shaking her head at the night's memory. "And those Jagerbombs…How many?"

Abed chewed thoughtfully on a bite of cereal, offering an absent nod as he tried to think through his head fog. It was proving almost prohibitively difficult, and he was left feeling short-circuited and on autopilot. "I'll never mix Guinness again." He deadpanned at length, shaking his head mournfully.

"—so one more time," Troy was reiterating, exasperated at dealing with God's spilled person. "That's two for _Cats_ under the name 'Barnes'." The words 'Cats' was spoken furtively, but Troy's hushed tone seemed to sail right over Garrett's head, who continued to spare no secrecy by speaking shrilly down the line.

"Yes, thank you, _MR. BARNES!_" To his credit, Garrett was otherwise the picture of customer service, and ended the call with the promise of a free small popcorn.

Back at the table, Abed looked up with sudden curiosity. "Look Annie," He said concertedly, and his spoon was extended to point straight over her shoulder.

"What?" She responded, whipping her head around—she saw nothing special except the corner of the room. In her second of distraction she heard the clink of metal and ceramic on the table in front of her, a spoonful of cereal being stolen from her bowl. She turned back with mock impunity to see Abed eating it, a comedic innocence barely hidden by his sunglasses.

"That was so obvious." Annie said, with typical over-compensatory maturity. Even still, her lips wound into a little smile at his childish gag.

"That was a heist." He replied coolly, affecting a joking tone of seriousness as he scooped up some of his own cereal. "Ocean's Eleven, and the casino is your cereal." With his free hand he nudged his Ray-bans down off his nose, laid them down in the middle of the table. Pausing to think of her reply, she observed the dark circles under his eyes that had only been exacerbated by their night of drinking.

"Not so fast…" She began quietly, and he let his wrists rest on the table as she slowly extended her own spoon towards his bowl. "I'm Indiana Jones…" His eyes followed as she took a single rainbow-shaped piece of cereal onto her spoon and lifted it to her lips. "…And this marshmallow is the Holy Grail." She ate the small sugary piece with a mock vengefulness that was purely entertaining to him. The reference was even kind of accurate.

Abed directed a look of wry curiosity at her. "I hate to have to tell you this, Indy," he began slowly, motioning toward her with his spoon as he picked it up once more. "...But that Grail isn't worth the trouble." His dark eyes watched as Annie licked milk from her lips, still suppressing a playful little smile.

"Good morning, guys!" Troy interrupted suddenly, and Abed found something about his entrance to be extra conspicuous. He was careful not to mention that Troy's smile seemed nervously wide as he leaned over the table and asked Annie for a bite.

"Why don't you grab a bowl, Troy?" Annie queried in a sweet voice as she nonetheless airplaned him a spoonful. "If you're trying not to make dishes, don't worry about it—,"

"It's fine, Annie." He answered, talking with his mouth full. "I had some of that leftover falafel from Thursday, too."

Abed pointed his finger in Troy's direction. "_Nice_."

The gesture was soon mirrored by the young quarterback, whose waggling eyebrows expressed delight at Abed's cooking. "Oh, it was nice."

"Superhero movie marathon?" Abed asked in a total non-sequitor. He supposed that it would be best not to watch anything too cerebral, given his state. "I was thinking Christopher Reeves' Superman— but I'm willing to entertain some Batman-George-Clooney as well."

Troy's nod was immediate as he raised his arms in exasperated excitement. "How do you always _know_?"

Annie rolled her eyes affectionately at the pair of them. She mused with private sneakiness that this meant she would have the bathroom and all the hot water to herself, causing her to hurry through her last bite of cereal.

"Annie," Abed said, craning his long neck back towards her. "Take first shower and don't use all the hot water." Annie suppressed a pout as she rose from the table—_foiled_. As always, he employed 'social grace' of typical Abed fame. "Batman Begins runs about 130 minutes, but you can't have anywhere near that long."

"Yea," Troy chipped in, unzipping the somewhat small-sized red sweater he wore and gathering it in his arms as he seemed to remember something. "I have laundry to do, and the boiler needs at least an hour."

"Troy, wait a second—," Annie began, her brow furrowing as she paused during her exit. "Isn't that _mine_?"

Troy held the sweater protectively, and his expression was a flimsy poker face meant to hide his transgression. "It's unisex."

Annie frowned. "But… it's _mine_."

"I won't stretch it—I've got skinny arms for a quarterback!" Troy's tone of voice was beseeching, and affected a noticeable leap in volume—Abed winced once more and put his sunglasses back on.

"Okay, okay," Annie said, her hand moving to massage her temple as her own hangover suddenly reminded her of its presence. "I guess if you're washing it. But don't leave any tissues in the pockets! It's totally gross!" Annie's gait was still visibly woozy as she turned to leave, the cuffs to her pyjama pants making a gentle swish as she made off for the bathroom.

Troy's hand made a fist in celebration of his small victory, and he cracked a smile as he looked to Abed. The lanky filmmaker was regarding him from his seat with a strange scrutiny, his black eyes just visible over the rim of his sunglasses. That look made Troy nervous, as though he were being scanned on a molecular level.

"Who was on the phone?" Abed asked, and his expression gave away nothing.

If Troy's smiling veneer faltered, it was only for a split second.

"No one."

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><p>FADE IN—<p>

CAMERA POV:

The footage began on a shaky frame, unsteady as the viewfinder swayed upon an unfocused shot of 303's kitchen. Dim evening light levels and the ambient sounds of fidgeting filled the camera's tracks as it rolled on nothing special, a dark hand soon straying into the frame to adjust the device's lens. The hand crossed the camera's light source, becoming a large, unarticulated blob upon the footage as the camera shuffled upon the kitchen counter, facing outward and vibrating as it was handled.

Beat.

The apartment was quiet but for the device's own beeps and plastic clacking as its settings were manipulated somewhere off-camera. There were no people in the frame, and the camera continued to roll on a shot of the sink, merely picking up voices from the room nearby. The sound of a door opening, and then—

/

CUT –  
>TIMECODE: V1 TC1 00;00;03;56<p>

/

"Have you seen my wallet?"

It was Annie's voice, expressed in the tinny, improperly-captured audio of recording without proper mics. Lacking a boom or monitors, the sounds were more frayed, having been interpolated by the camera's onboard sound card to result in the hertz-ridden timbre of cheap A/V equipment. "Wait—," The feminine voice continued, becoming more terse in a sudden realization. "And where are my _keys_?"

"Have you checked all your coat pockets?" As he watched the playback, Abed heard an answering voice upon the footage, and absently turned up the volume of the playback to observe the dialogue with his usual filmmaker's compulsion. Sounding from somewhere near where the fridge would be, the responding voice seemed flat and unvaried—he almost didn't recognize it.

"_Yes,_" Annie intoned quickly, her voice suggesting a barely-held stress that had always easily fraught the anxious girl. "I checked my winter coat two times, and my purse, and the sweater I was wearing when Troy and I drove to the drug store—,"

The camera jostled as it was picked up, and the frame swung to face the living room where Annie paced, chewing her lip in worry. Her expression was a complex set of anxieties. Without having been captured on film, they would have been a near inscrutable collection of features he could not understand—but as Abed let the footage play back, watched the sudden zoom upon Annie's face and the entreating blink with which she awaited an answer, he felt his brow crease.

"Calm down. They're here somewhere." Replied the clipped male voice upon the film, and Annie looked less worrisome. She took a breath obediently, strangely receptive of the patronization. "Your Mom's house will still be there, even if you're a bit late."

There was a beat as the timecode ticked endlessly on, and Annie's eyes seemed to look over the lens, coming to rest upon whoever held the camera. In this shot, the blue of her shirt matched her eyes—objectively, the aesthetic was pleasing. She cast her eyeline bashfully to the floor, and sensing the extended moment, the cameraman supplemented the hushed dialogue.

"…She's going to be happy to see you, even if you're a bit late."

When Annie looked up, it was to give herself away. There lay the true source of the anxiety, beyond the pretense of lost keys and being on time—it was the destination that terrified her.

The frame staggered with a jittery zoom, coming to refocus upon Annie's face. Her weighted expression reflected something curious that the film medium did not seem to simplify for him.

"Thanks, Abed."

/

SMASH CUT –  
>TIMECODE: V1 TC1 00;00;5;01<p>

/

"_WHAAAAT—," _A loud yelp.

It was Troy's voice. The sound of artificial gunfire sounded upon the playback as the frame swung to capture the young quarterback as he perched on a beanbag chair and mashed buttons on an XBOX 360 controller. "That was _so_ a headshot—," Said the young man, before looking to where Abed stood holding the camera and doing a typical thumbs-up at being recorded.

"_Hey_, I thought that one was broken. You got it working?" Troy asked, pointing down the barrel of the camera.

"Yep. Just doing some test shots now." Abed heard himself reply, but the voice on the footage still sounded monotonous. "Think I'm going to use this one as more of a point-and-shoot field camera." Troy offered a nod, letting the controller fall limply to the blanket fort's carpeted floor as he looked to something off camera.

"_Okayyy_—," Came the sound of a sing-song interruption, and the frame swung once more to capture Annie as she strode to the Apartment's front door. She had dressed primly, as if for an interview, or in fact anything more formal than going to visit one's own mother. Her overnight bag was with her in addition to her purse, and she presently set them down to shrug on her jacket. "I'm all set."

The camera was static as Troy traipsed into view, the sounds of videogame artillery still rattling off in the background as the console went un-paused. "We'll miss you, Annie." He said, and placed his arms around Annie's torso even as she struggled vainly to shoulder her overfilled bag.

"Agh—Troy—," Annie chirped, falling off-balance against the nearby wall. She sighed and patted Troy's back, her other arm clamped to her side awkwardly by the strap of her bag—Troy seemed unaware of the unwieldy situation as he drew back with a successful nod.

"It's only a 4 day stay." Annie simpered as she sorted herself out, bending to pull on a pair of ankle boots.

Troy balked, looking at her luggage sceptically. "You wouldn't think so." Suddenly, the sounds of videogame gunfire from within the blanket fort ceased, replaced by the mellow hum of loading screen music. "Damn, I'm getting kicked from the server—," Troy exclaimed, before dashing out of the frame to intercede. The shot didn't follow him, and rolled patiently on Annie as she stood ready to leave.

"Have everything?" Asked Cameraman-Abed, and Annie _mm-hmm_ed in response. The viewport swayed suddenly, its perspective sagging to capture two pairs of legs as she stepped to give him a similarly off-kilter goodbye hug.

"Drive safe." He mumbled shortly, the camera jostling as she drew away once more. The frame recomposed itself upon her retreating back as she pulled open the front door and stepped out of the apartment. The change in light levels caused a sudden smouldering in the footage's colouration, only normalizing as the camera followed her out into the hallway.

"Abed?" Annie queried as the camera continued to follow, the door closing with the whine of a hinge behind them. These new surroundings were cast in a green tint by its old overhead light fixtures, grotty from dust and negligence in Rick's inadequately maintained little complex.

"I'm just going to try a shot of you walking down here," Abed heard his own voice say upon the tape, and the camera dipped to capture a low angle shot that made the hallway seem very long in its composition. "Just want to see what I get."

Annie nodded, always agreeable to taking direction. She spared a glance over her shoulder as she turned down the hall, her bag swaying where she held it at her side. She walked centered between the narrow walls, her heeled boots echoing in dull repetitions as she strode past other front doors belonging to neighbours that they never saw. Her cream pea coat seemed stark now, drenched in the sterile lime tint of the overhead pot lights, and the sudden atmosphere of the shot lent a purposeful narrative to the young girl. In the moment, Annie seemed a guarded character, her pale neck and fine hair bundled tightly in her scarf as she retreated down the hall—a shrouded stranger. Fading away as she approached the far stairwell, the sight of her evoked the sketch of something in Abed's mind, a character within the frames as he watched them play back.

His thoughts were jarred as the sudden clap of a steel handle sounded upon the tape, coinciding with the spread of video artifacts upon the film. Abed clicked his teeth, watching the playback begin to stutter—he thought he had fixed these video errors. Pixels scattered noisily upon the frame's lower half, dancing in chords of useless visual information as the creak of metal hinges followed Annie's exit into the now-blurry stairwell.

The heavy storm door was whining, hauling itself close with a pneumatic sort of sound, catching slightly upon her bag as Annie maneuvered to descend the stairs—She stopped. Pausing in the vestibule, no longer leaving but instead looking back down the hall, Annie stood framed by the slowly closing door.

"There you go." Abed thought indulgently, watching Annie package the scene through the increasingly pixelated playback. The "mysterious character" primed herself, guiding strands of hair out of her eyes, cast in the backlighting of the stairwell's scone lights. A sudden dip of the viewport suggested the cameraman's negligence as he took up watching his subject, and Abed mentally chided himself for not having steadied the shot, but it was all in vain anyway—the visual noise was now scouring across the picture, rendering only illegible forms as the video capture went bad. Abed readied his finger upon the camera's "power" button, squinting at the playback as its final few legible frames showed Annie's careful exit down the stairs.

Ah, she was good at this, though.

Power-off.

/

TIMECODE: V1 TC1 00;00;08;49  
>FADE OUT—<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Hello- My apologies for the short hiatus, life has been crazy busy. To make up for it, here is an 8 page chapter. Thanks to everyone who has stuck around, I read all your reviews. Stay tuned! **Disclaimer:** I have no rights to Community.

* * *

><p><strong>Apartment 303: Chapter 4<strong>

The door to the Dreamatorium burst open with the loud sound of a breaking dead latch as a costumed bundle of limbs flew through the doorway and into the orange-gridded room. The body tumbled to the ground in an exaggerated stage fall before pulling itself up to its elbows to cough 'injuredly'. Dressed in a nylon cape and bike helmet of forest green, the battered individual rose on one knee dramatically, looking up and across the room to a figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"_Spiderman!" _The green-clad boy exclaimed, his voice sounding suspiciously like Abed Nadir attempting a villainous tone. "How did you find my lair!"

'Spiderman' advanced into the room with calm, predatory steps, smoothing down the novelty pajama shirt that served as his iconic red-and-blue webbed Spidey outfit. Only his orange and blue pyjama pants (and obvious likeness) gave him away as Troy Barnes.

"Green Goblin, you fool!" said Spiderman, adopting a near kung-fu like pose. "My spidey senses never fail!" With that, the two super powered young men began to square off, circling each other in the small room and narrowing their eyes.

"You'll never win, Spiderman! I have your beloved Mary Jane in my _even more secret _underground Goblin Bunker!" Green Goblin-Abed sneered frighteningly, giving Willem Dafoe a run for his money in the 'believably insane' department.

"That's where you're _wrong_, Goblin." Spiderman adopted a heroic tone of voice, his chin tipping to produce a 'have-you-in-my-crosshairs' style glare. "I _am_ going to save her, and you're going to tell me where she is! It's time that we end this little game!"

"Muahaha!" The Goblin cackled menacingly, raising his cape upon his forearm like some sort of vampire. "Have some patience, Spiderman… We're only just starting to have a _blast!_"

Suddenly, the Goblin whipped away his cape to mime an overhand throw in Spiderman's direction—

"Eat Goblin Bombs!"

"_Oh_ _no!_ They're _extra bombey!"_

Troy and Abed threw their hands in front of their faces, bracing against the 'bright light' of the bomb's detonation as together they vocalized the necessary sound effects of a huge, hyperbolically mushroom-clouded explosion.

* * *

><p>The sound of ticking echoed through the rooms of her mother's small apartment as Annie sat towards the end of a short dining table. The table was set nicely—bowls centered upon each plate, antique silverware laid upon doily napkins, with the cutlery ordered by size and placed precisely parallel. There was relative quiet but for the muffled sounds of movement in another room and the faint repetitions of the grandfather clock ticking out in the hall. Annie could see clearly from where she sat as clock's minute hand struck fifty past the hour, followed by a near-broken sounding 'clank' as the old timepiece's pendulums and weights returned to their slow alternation.<p>

It was all how she remembered it. The drapes, tasseled throw pillows, and decorative plates—but more than the décor, the atmosphere was just the same as the house her parents had once shared. Now, all of the same prim furnishings were packed into less than half as many square feet, resulting in the kind of clutter that Annie's mother would not have stood for in the orderly house she once kept. While the small home had managed to retain the kitschy, faux-affluent air that Annie remembered, its façade had become tellingly rough around the edges. Heavy curtains were drawn to cover most windows, books were stacked haphazardly in the apartment's short hallway, and Annie had found the bathroom wastebin entirely overfull. She had taken it all in stride until she observed the apartment's barely-hidden piles of old newspaper and bundles of unopened mail, all envelopes threatening words like, 'urgent 'or 'final notice'. Suddenly, Annie felt anxious.

"Just about done," came a sing-song voice, originating from the adjacent kitchen. "Can you guess what I made?" The voice continued happily, its source becoming apparent as Annie's mother rounded the corner into the room.

As Annie had been told a thousand times, she looked 'so much like her mother'. The older woman was always wont to counter that her little Annie was 'much prettier than she had ever been', but the comparison was still unavoidable—The pair's dark hair and round blue eyes gave them the look of being cut from the very same cloth.

Annie summoned a quaking smile as her mother approached the table to put down a covered pot which wafted with a familiar childhood scent. "You made matzo ball soup?" Annie asked, her voice pitching with sudden happiness as her mother smiled craftily.

"Your favourite." Answered Mrs. Edison wryly as she marched back to the kitchen in a pair of purple slippers. "The latkes are done too, but I should warn you that I'm trying your Aunt Rachel's recipes tonight, so dinner may not be exactly as you remember—,"

Annie nearly balked at the name. Her mother's sister had always seemed to take the title of 'Aunt' with sitcom seriousness, which meant that at family gatherings she would get piss drunk and say embarrassing things to anyone who would listen— that is, when she was not _already _busy grilling Annie for stories about her young life through which to live vicariously. Although, at the very least, she _was_ a decent cook.

"Mom, I'm sure they'll be great, but…"

"But what, sweetie?" Mrs. Edison piped up in a tone of strident hospitality, already returning to the table bearing a heaping plate of the latkes in question.

Annie looked up with a diplomatic smile, and tried to keep the image of the urgent envelopes from her mind. "It's just—You needn't have gone to all this trouble—,"

"_Nonsense._" Her mother nearly interrupted, placing the potato pancakes gingerly next to their crock-pot of matzo. "I see so little of you. You can't expect me not to have gone to some effort."

Annie felt the pressure of a motherly pat upon her shoulder as the older woman circled behind her to sit at the chair to her left. The grandfather clock kept its own decrepit-sounding dialogue out in the hall, fulfilling each of its own _tick_s with a rickety _tock_ as the elephant in the room began to take shape between mother and daughter. It smacked of the vitriol they'd exchanged at their last meeting, and the cautious effort they were now making to smooth things over.

"Besides," Mrs. Edison continued in modest pleasantry, reaching to remove the pot's lid and to ladle portions of soup into each of their bowls. "You're looking so thin, it does nothing for your figure."

_Right._

There was a moment of quiet as Annie resisted the urge to roll her eyes and instead reached to transfer a latke to her side plate. The constant criticism had been one reason that her mother saw so little of her. Somewhat of an oblivious chatterbox by nature, Mrs. Edison had the poor habit of rarely employing any social filters, resulting in 'helpful' comments that just sounded like denigration to anyone else. As though to prove Annie's thoughts correct, her mother suddenly attempted a "relatable anecdote".

"Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I can't imagine those… _men_ you're living with make much of an effort to help you eat right—and if I remember _my college days_, they'll be stealing all your food when you aren't looking."

Mrs. Edison's tone was of disapproval, but nonetheless managed to cloak the moment in a strange bout of déjà vu. A scene flashed in Annie's mind—the harsh crinkling of plastic, the smell of fruity cereal, and a spoonful being stolen from her bowl.

Annie smiled softly then, eyelids fluttering at the memory.

"We… share."

Mrs. Edison regarded her daughter strangely, as if feeling out of the loop. For a moment, the older woman seemed to tread water, her gaze wandering off down the table as she stirred her own bowl of soup idly. She let the moment pass with a slight toss of her head that was a subconscious expression of being painfully out-of-touch.

"Eat up now, Annie, before your soup gets cold." Mrs. Edison said, beginning to cut a latke with her fork and knife.

Annie nodded, obediently trying her first spoonful. Her eyes watered immediately as the piping hot liquid hit her throat, and she swallowed with wide, surprised eyes. "Ooh," Annie began, exhaling hotly as she considered the flavor with near-scalded taste buds. Mrs. Edison had paused, suffocatingly attentive to her daughter's judgment of the meal.

"It's… good!" Annie offered, looking up with a half-smile that was meant to break the spell of doting expectation that had fallen over her mother.

At once, Mrs. Edison was animated again. "Oh, I'm so glad you think so! You can tell your Aunt Rachel what you think of her recipe when you see her."

Annie paused in the motion of raising another spoonful to her lips. "What?"

"Didn't I tell you? Your Aunt Rachel is going to bring your cousins over to see you before you leave on Thursday."

Annie paused in a moment of subdued revulsion. One of her mother's most disagreeable habits was her tendency to parade her around relatives at the drop of a hat. Annie had never been close with Aunt Rachel or her cousins, until the divorce had left Mrs. Edison with reason to mentally rebuild her perception of the 'family unit'. Suddenly, then, every day had become a new reconnection with extended family or old friends. Why should Annie want to see any of them?

A voice in the back of her head was already saying, '_Pick your battles, don't plant a flag on this,' _and it took a lot of restraint for Annie not to protest—but of course, her mother was continuing, engaged now in espousing her insensitive inner monologue.

"You know, Rachel's son has just started his internship at St. Michael's hospital—and isn't that the one _you_ wanted to do, before—," Mrs. Edison stopped characteristically short of outright needling.

_Before what? Before I put myself in rehab?_

Annie's next spoonful of soup tasted bitter. Here was the familiar feeling of her heart winding itself into anxiety, the uptight clutch that kept her suspended between outrage and barely-held politeness. There was no being loosey goosey around her mother, a fact reiterated immediately as Mrs. Edison deigned to continue her boorish dialogue.

"…So you two will have something useful to talk about. Maybe he can help you get back on track with your _future_."

Annie's spoon fell to her side plate with a loud clang. "No," She began, her heart deciding upon an instinctive flight response. There was no way she was doing this, no way she was going to dredge up her failures to be put on display and chidingly retold. "No, Mom, I just remembered, I— I have to leave tonight, actually—,"

_An excuse, think of one_. "—Troy called and asked to borrow the car."

Quiet.

Her mother's disappointment was painfully tangible. "Oh." She began, and the single syllable somehow managed to carry a crushing amount of guilt. Worse still was Mrs. Edison's tacit acceptance of the excuse, a clear effort to respect her daughter's wishes which only compounded the strain of the moment. "…Your Aunt will be sad that she missed you."

Annie knew it wasn't Rachel that would be sad.

The sudden chirp of her cell phone broke up the silence. Withdrawing the device from her skirt pocket, Annie read the words "Text from Jeff Winger" upon its screen, and her heart couldn't help but skip a tiny beat. Jeff was texting her, unprompted?

[ 12/27/11 5:59PM  
>From: Jeff<br>To: Britta, Shirley, Abed, Annie, Troy, Pierce

Hey guys,  
>New Years is on at Flanagan's Hole. Apparently it's re-opening under new management. Half price drinks on NYE. RSVP unnecessary, as I won't take no for an answer.<br>P.S. - Pierce, stop tagging me as Chris Colfer on Facebook. ]

'…_Well, at least I made the list,' _Annie thought with some reproach, and the image of Jeff's impish smile flashed in her mind. There was a time when the thought of him alone would have summoned feelings of exhilaration and an immediate blush—now, those feelings came laced with a sense of resignation that stated despite her efforts, Jeff would never become the warmer version of the man that she had wanted to love for so long. She cringed at the memory of her earlier attempts to fashion her into boyfriend material.

The sudden peal of the grandfather clock echoed loudly from the hallway, harshly interrupting Annie's train of thought. She looked up with a jolt at the sound, and Mrs. Edison lay her hand over her heart, surprised at the sudden din—but while the clock should have rung 6 o'clock, it seemed to cough, splutter, and peter out at four.

Annie's mother shook her head, offering her daughter a conciliatory smile.

"I've always loved that old thing—if only I could get it to work properly."

* * *

><p>Troy and Abed sat cross-legged on the floor of the apartment's sitting area, the overhead ceiling fan clipping through the room's pot lighting to cast a gentle flicker upon the young men. It didn't seem to bother Abed as he scrawled messily in a new spiral-bound notebook, adding to a small chart that he had drawn inside the book's fresh pages. The journal bore strange diagrams and in one portion even seemed to illustrate the phases of the moon, all of it scrawled under a heading that read 'January'.<p>

Troy leaned back on one arm as he sat watching Abed write, listening to the near-silent scratch of pen on paper as he sucked idly on a cherry lollipop. "You sure your shoulder's okay, man?" Troy asked, seeming slightly cautious as he waited for Abed's reply. "I mean… you kind of _broke _the doorknob when you did that fall."

Abed looked up from his work to waggle his eyebrows at Troy. "Yea, it really hurt." He said, but in fact he sounded strangely pleased. "Pretty 'method', right?"

Still dressed in his Goblin outfit, the young filmmaker shrugged the collar of his green shirt to the side, displaying a slowly-presenting bruise upon his coffee-coloured skin. Troy didn't seem quite as enthusiastic.

"Method, yea…" Troy trailed, shifting his lollipop to the other side of his mouth thoughtfully. "It's just, if I had known you were going with the full DeNiro route, I'd have lent you some shoulder pads. It's hard to bruise through football padding."

Abed cocked his head at Troy, allowing his pen to drop to the page below it.

"Troy, if I was going to go as method asDeNiro, I'd have had to actually explode the Dreamatorium."

There was a beat while they tried to deadpan it, staring at each other as the image of Robert DeNiro playing the Green Goblin came to mind—in the next moment, they broke, descending into a bout of giggles that was entirely unbecoming of their masculinity.

"You talkin' to me?" Troy imitated, grabbing Abed's discarded green bike helmet and placing it on his head to complete the Goblin-DeNiro impression. "You talkin' to _me_?"

Abed smiled, keeping up conversation even as his gaze fell to resume writing. "Good luck rescuing Mary Jane from that guy." He commented offhand.

"How else is Spiderman going to get the girl?" Troy quipped, hauling his arm behind his helmet and holding at the elbow in a stretch. "The guy's gotta save her, every single time. That's all he's got."

The quiet scratching sound of writing ceased suddenly, and Abed's pen stuck heavily to a single point upon the page as his dark gaze snapped up to look at Troy. The young man was idly shifting to grab his other arm, eyes closed in relaxation as he tilted his neck to increase the stretch.

"Peter Parker's _always _been about MJ," Troy continued matter-of-factly, speaking over the audible pop of his shoulder joint. "–but Spiderman's the way he can show it."

Suddenly, the harsh beeping of the microwave echoed from the kitchen, and Troy's eyes snapped open. The green helmet hit the rug next to the nearby chair as he leapt up, sliding upon his socks to reach the kitchen. The young quarterback stopped briskly in front of the small cooking unit, its front door making a plastic pop upon opening, and the smell of an Alfredo-sauced TV dinner wafted into the room.

Troy hissed suddenly as his fingers burnt against the underside of his noodle tray, and he air-lifted the scalding dinner to the nearby counter with a sharp intake of breath—all part of the TV dinner experience. "Gracias." Troy addressed the microwave cordially, discarding his lollipop before beginning to stir his noodles with a swiftly-retrieved fork.

Peeling back the dinner's lid carefully, Troy seemed perfectly happy in anticipation of the largely nutritionless meal, having been in full indulgence of junk food all week without Annie around to chastise him. He could almost hear her now—"_You guys_, that stuff isn't good for you!" Even Abed found himself working steadily through the week's third box of Cheesy snacks as he rounded out his little chart, carried the one, and seemed to decide upon something with a little nod to himself.

"Not sitting?" Abed asked, finally craning his head to observe Troy where he leaned against the kitchen counter and assaulted his TV dinner despite its piping heat.

The young man shook his head as he hastily swallowed a bite, sliding his meal along the counter so as to gravitate closer to their conversation. "Gotta eat fast, I'm getting the bus in 10." he replied, absently sorting peas out of the dish with his fork. Ew, peas.

"Oh, is that tonight?" Abed asked, his head tipping mechanically as he munched on a bit of cheesy puffed wheat.

Troy nodded at once, a sudden nervous air to him. "Yeah—you know, Coach said we'd all meet down at the pool hall for a little off-season teambuilding. Just _drinkin' some beers_ _with the team_. My football team. Whom… I am going out to meet. Tonight." The strange smile pasted upon Troy's poker face was thankfully supplanted by his next bite, allowing him a brief reprieve from the demands of conjured expression.

"Of course." Abed stated simply, but the linger of his glance made the hairs on Troy's neck raise. There was a short stretch of silence as Troy scraped together a final huge bite from the corners of his tray, chowing down on it quickly before he tossed out the empty packaging.

Reminding himself to act in courtesy, Abed stood up swiftly from the ground to say goodbye. He hovered into the kitchen, idly adjusting the green Goblin cape he still wore as he watched Troy move to retrieve his jacket from where it hung upon the closet door.

"All right buddy, see ya later on," Troy said, shrugging on his woolen coat and adjusting its collar briskly as he reached for the front door—before suddenly whipping back to face the room.

"Oh, and by the way… if you wanna watch Spiderman 2 without me, that's totally cool."

"I was about to ask you." Abed replied, and the corner of his mouth quirked happily.

"For real?"

"Psychic handshake!" They suddenly exclaimed in unison, and the sound of slapping hands briefly filled the room as they exchanged their secret gesture.

The pair said a final goodbye as Troy's hand clapped against the front door's handle, hauling it open and making his quick exit into the hallway. Abed stood in bare feet upon the kitchen's tiled floor, listening to the door creak shut as the only remnant of Troy became the sound of a whistled jazz tune fading down the hall.

Alone in the quiet apartment, Abed's arms hung lankily at his sides as he turned back to face the sitting area and the notebook that lay upon the ottoman. From where he stood he could clearly see his own writing upon its charted page—two names formed one chart, followed by another which got its own—

It was the name 'Annie', blotted heavily by an ink spot caused by the sudden stop of a pen.


End file.
